


Bogeyman

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clothing Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're really not supposed to know his name. He's the invisible scary thing that happens to people who really screw up. So don't get cocky at a party and start insulting someone without real basis, to make yourself look good to someone whose name you really don't know. Because it might be him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> John and Greg do appear, just barely, if you're watching closely. But blink and you'll miss them. And there is implicit Mystrade in that.

“Did you see that guy from the Home Office? My God, I swear he would have chased her down the street.” The young man laughed, taking another sip from his glass of champagne. “He was wearing Hugo Boss as if it even mattered to her. I don’t care if he does stand in the next election - there is no way he is ever going to be anything more than a computer geek.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” the woman with him teased, her eyes wide over the top of her own glass.

“Oh, come on, Sandra. He’ll make better money if he just commits to it, and good luck to him. But he’s never going to get on in civil service, let alone actual politics.”

“But isn’t that the point?” she asked, reaching out and running her finger down his lapel. “You can afford your suits because you are very, _very_ good at what is, essentially, just advanced maths. And that is how you can afford your very nice suits, which you look very nice in. But if he does start his own online empire, he will be able to afford the very same tailor you use. He’ll start going to the gym, get a personal trainer, and very soon, Charlie, you’ll be the one chasing his cast-off bits of fluff at charity events.”

Charlie rolled his eyes, but was visibly pleased by all of the implied flattery. “If you’re trying to accuse me of being less than committed to my job, absolutely guilty as charged. Work is what we do in order to be allowed to do what we please the rest of the time. It’s nothing more. I’ve never understood these old-timers who really seem to have bought into the idea that it’s an honour to let some shadowy committee run your life and summon you at any moment, no matter where you are. At least with slavery, you keep your self-respect. You’re not expected to _like_ it. But the old guard think we should thank them when they drag us around by the balls. I beg your pardon, _private parts,”_ he corrected himself with a look at her.

Sandra laughed, smoothing a hand over her sleek hair, her eyes skipping away from his face. “It’s much easier for us to get a grasp on your balls and drag you about by them,” she said easily, “than it is for you to try to hook your little-boy fingers into ours.”

“Touche,” he nodded, accepting the score. “Still. I think there’s something to be said for dressing for success, even now. Save up and buy one decent suit, rather than scraping through the January sales and buying department store rubbish that _almost_ fits. He’d get on a lot quicker if he just took a little bit of pride in his appearance. A little vanity in a man is no bad thing.”

“Depends on the man,” Sandra said.

Charlie snorted, refusing to concede another point so quickly. “Right. Look around - best dressed man in the room. Who’s your vote?”

Sandra raised her eyebrows, scanning the room. One older man with silver hair caught her eye, but  it was his face that did it, not his suit. It was a good suit, but she decided his face was simply too distracting. He could have been dressed from a charity shop and she still would have fancied him. The man he was speaking to was a bit short, but still managed to look impressive. She liked the clean, strong lines of his suit, but as he laughed, he turned so she could see his tie - white with black polka dots. Disappointing. 

“All right,” she said finally, turning back to Charlie. “Nine o’clock, grey pinstripe.”

One side of Charlie’s mouth lifted in a crooked smile. He let his eyes linger on the long back, the hang of the double-vented jacket off of the curve of the shoulders. He might have quibbled over the choice if he hadn’t recognized the posture. “Oh, nice. I think I’ve seen him before. Definitely not one of the old guard.” 

“You know him?”

“Not really. Small talk in elevators, that kind of thing. Hell of a sharp dresser.”

“So you can’t really introduce me,” Sandra said with a small pout.

“I don’t know what he does, but I suspect he’s something in intelligence. He knows my name, but he’s never offered his own.”

“Curious.”

“Friendly chap, though. Here, let’s go and say hello. Looks at a bit of a loose end, poor thing.”

“Why not?” Sandra shrugged, following him. 

As they drew closer, she saw that the man was looking down at a mobile in his hand, his thumb stroking the screen non-stop as he frowned at it, his drink ignored in his right hand. “Aren’t we supposed to be off the clock?” Charlie said, nudging him with his shoulder as he drew alongside. Sandra paused, as though expecting him to move on, before taking a step closer.

The man looked up, and his face brightened in a smile. “I’m familiar with the term,” he said with mock seriousness. “Not from personal experience, you understand. In theory.”

“Of course. I believe it’s still taught at Hendon.”

“Is it? Oh, yes.” The man laughed, smiling at Sandra as well, including her in the joke. 

She had chosen well, she decided. The pinstripe was actually a fine herringbone, and a three-piece suit into the bargain. On another man, she might have questioned the fine matching herringbone weave of his white shirt, but on him it just made her want to reach out and dig her nails into it. Everything about him made her want to touch him - the lapels of his jacket curved, rather than being sharply creased, and the knot of his dark blue silk-satin tie was not the hard, tight symmetrical V that she associated with most of the civil service. It was tilted just slightly, showing just the edge of the placket on the front of his shirt.  This man did not dress in haste; it was clear this was intentional. The gold rosette of the tie pin a few centimeters down from the knot was unnecessary, the tie tucked inside his waistcoat, but held his tie slightly loose, another tactile taunt.

She knew he had seen her looking him over, and didn’t even pretend she could hide it. “That is a lovely suit. I would say the finest in the room.”

The man’s eyebrow flickered, and he tilted his head in a brief bow. “Thank you. And you - Sarah Arthur?” He nodded at her wine-red wool sheath.

“Well _done,”_ she said, surprised. “We were just discussing whether clothes maketh the man, or if it’s the other way ‘round.”

“Like so many things in life, I find it’s both,” the tall man said, scanning the room. “Either one will only take you so far, on its own. And of course you can use either one to cheat.”

“It’s hardly cheating,” Charlie protested, smiling. “It’s an expression of aspiration.”

“But after a few decades, you’ll find it does become such hard work.” He smiled as he said it, and lifted his glass to his lips.

“I wasn’t thinking for myself,” Charlie countered. The alcohol had been abundant, and top quality, and sometimes subtlety was less helpful than clarity. “Do you happen to know Jacob Barnes, in the Home Office?”

“I do.”

“He overreached himself a bit earlier with that journo from the _Times._ I just said that if he hadn’t been wearing Hugo Boss while she was wearing Temperley, he might have had better luck. But as it was...obviously doomed.”

“Ahh, I did hear something of the sort.” The man nodded soberly. “Yes, Jacob’s rather ambitious, isn’t he? And yet such a curious career choice, for him. I understand he’s thinking of a change.”

“He’s talking up standing for office. I suppose that was his real reason for chasing her. But he means well. Just needs the right PR, really. Or chuck it all and stick with computing. I hear he did a PhD.”

“Really? Now that is surprising.”

“Fairly common knowledge in his circle, I thought. I just happened to hear it tonight, when he made his big move.” He raised his eyebrows comically. “I mean. It was just so sad, really. Hugo Boss. Even so, if he’d just made a little effort. How hard can it be to haul on a pair of Spanks before you pop a button? I was sure he was going to split his trousers, right there.”

“Spanks?”

Charlie cocked his head at the man; there was a certain tone in his voice that jangled. “Oh, come off it. Surely you clever types in the shadows know everything there is to know about how to change your body shape. You know. The, what do they call it, shapewear. Modern version of a corset, only a bit more discreet and perfectly acceptable version for men. After the holidays, surely we’ve all had a surprise or two.”

“Oh yes, I’m familiar with the concept. I’m just not so sure Jacob would be.”

“That’s rather my point,” Charlie said drily.

And suddenly, he was the focus of the tall man’s attention. His full, entire attention. The inch difference in their height was suddenly so much greater, and the man’s pale blue eyes so much brighter. “Jacob Barnes is a wise man. He chose not to hide himself, and he never has. There is a place for him in this world. I commend him for his clear-eyed view of himself - it speaks well of him that he isn’t spending as much time on self-deception. One may choose to hide aspects of oneself from the world, but no good has ever come from trying to hide things from oneself. If Mr. Barnes happens to need the name of a good tailor, I think I shall just go and have a word. Do excuse me.” When he finally shifted his focus on to Sandra, he allowed some warmth to return to his manner, nodding, and then moving off.

“That was bizarre,” Charlie blurted once he was certain the man was out of earshot. “Completely uncalled for.”

“So you disagreed about the clothes of a minor civil servant,” Sandra said, trying not to smile. “Hardly a crisis.”

“I have no idea,” Charlie admitted, his head swimming a bit. “There’s a word they have for this, in my department. They call it being mycroffed, I think.”

“In mine, it’s Mycrofted,” Sandra told him.

“Yeah, that’s it. Never known why. But they usually say it right before someone gets transferred. Bloody hell.”

Sandra was still following the long, elegant back of the tall man in the grey pinstriped suit, watching as he made his way through the crowd. He paused next to a pair of men chatting and laughing, and she realised they were the two she’d spotted earlier - the grey-haired man and his shorter companion in the white tie with black spots. The tall man said a few words to the grey-haired man, and then the shorter man shook hands with them both, warmly, before waving as they moved off in the direction of the doors. “I think it’s a name. And actually, Charlie, I’m not even sure I’ll miss you.”


End file.
